


I See You Shiver With Anticipation

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actor!AU, Bullying, Canon Movie, I'm basically just transcribing the movie here, M/M, Maybe with some of the actual musical undertones, Rocky Horror Picture Show - Freeform, Unilock, Verbal Stutter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rocky Horror. Started as a musical in 1973, and made into a major motion picture, starring Tim Curry, Susan Sarandon and Barry Bostwick in 1975. Crossdressers, crazy songs, six inch stilettos. Sex. This is the play John Watson's drama class is putting on. And he couldn't hate it more.</p><p>This play belongs to Richard O'Brien, and I am simply using it for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely of coincidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Auditions

**Author's Note:**

> beta: rosaisanerd
> 
> So hello I am here again with another WIP that I was urged to continue by my beta, who shares a love of Sherlock, TRHPS and actor!AU's with me, and this was a idea I worked on sometime last year after some extensive research into the musical (I was hoping my hometown was going to put it on so I could audition, no such luck unfortunately. Instead I am working on Chicago, which is why I have mentioned it in this fic.)
> 
> I thought it better for the characters to be stage actors as that is where my knowledge of acting is its strongest, being a stage actor myself. And as the tags do say, I am basically transcribing the movie instead of the musical, but in the guise of a musical. Confusing, but easier to write with the little time I have on my hands (:
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

We sat in a circle on the floor, completely quiet, attention fixed on our director as he prepared to tell us what play our class was going to perform at the National Theatre. We were all anxious to know what mess we would be getting into, the shambles of the previous class’ rehearsals fresh in our minds. (Last year’s class had put on Chicago. Rehearsals were absolutely atrocious - and they were meant to be the best of the best. It turned out to be a pretty good show, mind you.)

"Now." I looked up and met the eyes of Mycroft Holmes; tutor, director, and sarcastic asshole extraordinaire. There was a subtle hint of excitement in his voice, but his face was impassive. "For our production this year I have decided to do an old favourite of mine-" He was cut off by a dry snort from across the circle. I looked over and caught the hint of a smirk flash across the lips of his younger brother, Sherlock. There were rumours that Sherlock only got accepted into the class because of Mycroft's influence, but having seen Sherlock act I knew he got in on pure talent. Mycroft shot a glare in Sherlock's direction before continuing, "-not to mention one of my _brother’s_ , The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I expect everyone to audition for a part." There was a chorus of groans. I rolled my eyes, although I couldn't deny the disappointment rising in my throat.

"Is there a back-up?" Anderson asked from next to me. Stuart Anderson was one of those guys who lazes about constantly but performs extraordinarily well. He could play assholes and villains particularly well; perhaps because that was what he was like off stage. We had attended the same high school, and we had been in the same drama class. Nobody could deny that he was very talented, despite his obnoxious personality. He had showed everyone that when he had played Othello a few years back.

Mycroft fixed him with a piercing gaze. "No. I expect you all to participate, regardless of your beliefs regarding transsexuality and homosexuality. When you are on stage, you are not yourself. All of you should know that by now."

"So, if we don't get the part we auditioned for, do we become a chorus member?" Sally Donovan asked.

"Yes, you will become one of the transvestites, that is correct," Mycroft half smiled at the crestfallen faces of his students. "Auditions are next Thursday. You are expected to sing the song of the character you wish to play on the list I am about to hand out, and act a scene of my choosing. You should be warned, these scenes will not necessarily be from Rocky Horror." He passed a stack of paper to Sarah Sawyer, another very talented woman. The paper set off around the circle, and muttering broke out as people grudgingly picked their desired parts. Across the circle, Mike Stamford locked eyes with me and raised his eyebrows. I looked at him quizzically. 

"Go for Rocky," he mouthed. I blinked at him, and he laughed. I rolled my eyes good-naturedly and shook my head.

"I will see you all next Thursday," Mycroft said, standing. We all followed suit and he flashed a quick smile at the class before ushering us out of the room. Everyone broke into conversation at once, and Mike came up to me, clapping me on the shoulder.

"Rocky Horror, mate!" he laughed, his rounded face bright. "Oh, this will be bloody brilliant!" I made a noncommittal noise, and Mike sighed.

"John, we've known each other since we were kids, right? Just 'cause there's people around doesn't mean you can't talk to me, mate."

"Be-being around people ma-ma-makes it worse," I hissed, facing him.

I had a verbal stutter. A really bad one. I’d had it since I started talking. My dad had refused to let me go to a doctor and try and get rid of it, saying it was a part of who I was. Mum had hated the stutter, sometimes saying she didn't want to live with an illiterate and incomprehensible bastard. She and Dad had fought constantly, and eventually they got a divorce. I stayed with Dad when I was in high school, but my older sister went between parents before she turned 21 and moved out. I'm 19 now and, well, the upshot of it all was that the stutter never got better. The reason I took up acting was because for some odd reason when I wasn't being myself, it went away. That was the best part. 

We walked along the street towards Mike's car, Mike rambling on about nothing in particular until he muttered a gruff, "Oh, sorry mate..." when Sherlock Holmes stalked past us, head held high. I scoffed.

"Just be-because his br-brother is the owner of th-the damn c-class doesn't mean h-he's bleedin' royalty," I said softly. Mike chuckled, looking at Sherlock's retreating back.

"Well, he's pretty much a queen anyway," he replied, making me laugh. I liked my laugh. Well, it was more of a giggle if I was being totally honest.

"S-so am I, th-though." I was still giggling. Mike grabbed his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the car, and we both got in. "G-God, I h-hate him."

"Sherlock? Everyone does." Mike started the car, put his iPod on shuffle and put on his seatbelt. "Apparently even Mycroft does."

"Th-that's awful," I murmured. I knew what it was like to have a family member hate you.

"He’s got talent though, hasn’t he?"

"I-is the sky b-blue?" I countered. Mike laughed, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

"Did that bloke end up calling you?" he asked. Mike was constantly making sure my gay high life was up to scratch.

"Y-yeah, but I d-don't want t-to see him ag-again," I told him. "K-kind of a dick."

"He looked sweet!"

"Y-you have a very s-strange definition of the w-word ‘sweet’," I laughed. "Be-besides, he reminded m-me too mu-much of James."

"Oh God, that'd kill any boner, eh?" Mike winked at me. "How d’you mean, reminded?"

"Th-the eye colour, th-the sarcastic sense of hu-humour, and the w-way he styled h-his hair..." I cleared my throat and sighed. "Can't d-date someone who w-won't turn y-you on."

Mike nodded and then we drove for a minute in comfortable silence before arriving at my dad’s. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Th-that you w-will." I closed the car door, fished my keys out of my pocket and let myself into the house. Running up the stairs to my bedroom, I pulled the list of characters and songs out of my jacket pocket and ran my eyes down it.

Brad Majors - 'Dammit, Janet'  
Janet Weiss - 'Ta-Ta-Ta-Touch Me'  
Dr. Frank-n-Furter - 'Sweet Transvestite'  
Dr. Scott - 'Eddie'  
Riff Raff - 'Time Warp'  
Magenta - 'Time Warp'  
Columbia - 'Time Warp'  
Eddie - 'Hot Patootie'  
Rocky - 'The Sword of the Damocles'

I sighed and made my way over to my laptop, going over the list a few more times before finally looking up Rocky’s song. A bunch of music videos presented themselves, and I pressed my fingers to my slightly aching head. No going back now.

*

Thursday came around, and I knew Rocky’s song off by heart. I was humming it when Mike came to pick me up, and smiled as I realised he was listening to his chosen song.

"H-Hot Patootie?" I asked, grinning. "You're g-going for E-Eddie?"

"Vocal range, mate," Mike shrugged, turning the song off. "Plus we kind of look alike."

"H-how much re-research did you do?"

"Enough that I found blooming fanfiction," Mike sighed. "At least I know the song."

"A-At least you w-won't be w-wearing no-nothing but gold sp-spandex."

"I know you'd go for Rocky!" Mike exclaimed. "Let's hope your Frank-n-Furter is good, eh?"

"I'm f-fine with an-anyone," I replied. "I have no choice - kno-knowing Mycroft, th-this will be f-filthy." Mike snorted in agreement and stopped the car. We got out and found everyone in groups.

"Go to the group for the character you are auditioning for," a snooty guy in an ostentatious bow tie informed us. All of sudden I felt a prickling at the back of my neck, and spun around to meet Sherlock's cool gaze. He was standing with five blokes who were in Mycroft's other classes, and as far as I could see they all seemed to be auditioning for Frank-n-Furter. 

"If you are going for Brad, you're too late," he informed me coolly.

"Greg's going for Brad," Mike said, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. I knew Mike felt intimidated by the younger Holmes, and quite frankly I didn’t blame him.

Sherlock's face relaxed slightly. My heart gave an unusual flutter, and I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Lestrade has a good chance," he said, and turned away with a nod. Mike grinned at me and made his way over to the Eddie group. I walked to the bunch of Rockys, suddenly realising with a sinking feeling that this was a terrible idea. I looked down at the ground, not acknowledging anyone. Time dragged on. Finally the Janets went in, then the Frank-n-Furters, and I watched Sherlock go in. My subconscious wished him luck, and I slapped my subconscious across the face.

Eventually they called everyone auditioning for Rocky into the room, and we all sat down. Mycroft was very organised. The seats were separated into his various classes, and you sat on the chair with your name on. You were called alphabetically, so as usual I was last. Eventually my name was called, and I walked in on shaking legs. Seated behind a desk was Mycroft, Anthea, our musical director, and Irene, our choreographer. 

"H-H-Hello," I stuttered, and Mycroft gave me a sympathetic half-smile. "I-I'm Jo-John Wat-Wat-Watson..."

"Go ahead, John," Mycroft said calmly. I took a deep breath and centred myself. When I started singing, my voice shook a little, but it soon got stronger. In what seemed like an incredibly brief amount of time, the song was over.

After that, I was ushered into the theatre, and I sat next to Mike, fingers still shaking. He grinned at me and patted my shoulder reassuringly. Mycroft walked onto our stage, holding a thick black folder stuffed with paper.

"You were all excellent in your singing auditions, and now I want that excellence to roll over into our acting auditions." Mycroft's voice was loud and clear, his decisive tones commanding immediate silence and respect. "And I expect proper audience etiquette from each and every one of you."

Anthea came on stage and called the first group of people up. They were given a scenario and told to improvise. A lot of the groups were, for want of a better word, shit. Some had no chemistry. One of the girls from my class transformed from an amazingly talented drama student to a desperate teenager. Mike went up with Greg and a girl from Mycroft’s Monday class - Kitty, her name was. I vaguely remembered her dating Moriarty's twin brother. They were all amazing, and I felt slightly put out. When Mike came offstage, he was beaming. More groups went up and finally my name was called; along with Molly Hooper's, a girl I used to attend school with, and Sherlock Holmes. Of course.

I walked up with my head down, trying not to let anxiety get the best of me. Once on stage, I felt myself change. I straightened my back and the shaking stopped. _You aren't yourself, you are new._ I fixed Mycroft with a level gaze, and his lips quirked slightly.

"Sherlock, you have just walked in on Molly and John together in bed. You are free to choose the relationship." Mycroft leaned back in his chair. Sherlock walked into the wings, giving me and Molly time to set the scene. Molly took a deep breath, looked up, and suddenly kissed me. As unexpected as it was, I reciprocated. She pulled away when Sherlock made his entrance.

"What the hell is this?" Sherlock choked. He was completely in character, his usual stony indifference replaced with raw anger. "Oh God, John! I can’t believe this, I trusted you!"

"Trust goes both ways, Sherlock." My voice was snide, the new character taking over. "Who knows what- no, _who_ you're doing whenever I'm away."

Sherlock looked hurt, but still angry. For a face that was usually so blank, it was undeniably odd to see it displaying such a wide variety of emotions.

"How dare you?" he hissed, stepping closer. "How could-"

"How dare he?" Molly finally spoke. "How dare _he_? Perhaps if you were a proper boyfriend, he never would have come over! How dare _you_ , Sherlock! You cherish a boyfriend, you love him. You don't let him be shared and you _certainly_ hold him above all others! Don’t you _dare_ think even for one second that John’s to blame for all this!"

Sherlock was obviously surprised at the power in Molly's usually timid voice, and instead of breaking character he incorporated it into the scene.

"You have no right to tell me how to make a relationship work," he snarled. Molly threw her head high, her brown eyes meeting his in a cold stare. "You don't know anything!"

"I told her everything, Sherlock!" I cried. Angry, upset, heartbroken. "So don't you dare speak to her like that." There was so much power in our scene, and everyone in the audience was quiet. I stepped out of the "bed" and stood near Sherlock. "Molly, maybe you should go."

"Call me, John," she said quietly, and walked offstage. Sherlock's face changed, and he looked pained, almost tearful.

"Is there a chance?" His voice had changed too; soft, vulnerable.

"I don't think there is."

"John." Sherlock sounded so hurt. I reached out and cupped his face, despite our height difference. "Please. Let her go. I need you."

"No, you don't," I answered with a sad smile. Sherlock closed his eyes, his hands reaching up to cover mine.

"Please." His voice was so low I could barely hear it. My heart constricted painfully and I had to remind myself that this wasn't real, that I hated Sherlock Holmes. "Please, I love you."

"I loved you too," I replied, dropping my hands. His eyes opened, and if any casting director had seen those tears, how incredibly real they looked, he would be hired on the spot. "Goodbye, Sherlock. This was... nice."

"Nice?" Sherlock gasped in disbelief. "John-"

"There was never enough," I said, straightening my back. Time to finish this. "And apparently I was never enough." I went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Taking a step back, avoiding eye contact, I walked offstage. The audience burst into applause; not the polite clap the other groups had received, but proper theatre applause. I came out of the wings to do my bow, and looked at Sherlock. His mask was back in place, but he looked at me and there was something kind in those incredible eyes.

"Nice job," he whispered.

"Th-th-thanks," I answered, taken aback.

"That was beautiful!" Molly said when we returned to our seats. "And I'm so sorry about kissing you... I don't know what came over me..."

"I-It's okay, M-Mol," I smiled at her. "I-it got s-s-something out off Ho-Holmes."

She returned my smile. Mike was sitting in the row behind us, and he leaned forward and clapped my shoulder enthusiastically.

"Holy crap!" he laughed. "That was brilliant! You and Holmes had the best chemistry! And the kiss you got from Mols... If you don't get cast as anything I'm going to riot!"

"Sh-shut up, Mi-Mike." I elbowed him, and he did; but only because Mycroft had walked onstage to tell us that we would receive texts informing us of our allocated parts next Thursday. After praising us on our impeccable audition etiquette, he dismissed us. Everyone except Mike and I started talking at once. We stayed quiet as he drove me home, and once I got in I smiled the whole evening. I texted Harry about the audition, and she sent me back an enthusiastic reply.

I went to work on Friday, went to a football game on Saturday with Dad, and looked into RADA and LAMDA and even NIDA in Australia. My life continued as usual for the rest of the week.

On Thursday, a week after the audition, I received two texts:

  _John, very good audition, I am proud of you. And I am happy to inform you that you have been cast as Rocky. We will rehearse on Tuesday and Thursday, and our first performance is October 10th. I will see you next week. - MH_

 _Congratulations on getting Rocky. I look forward to working with you. -SH_

My heart did another weird flip when I read the initials. Sherlock was texting me. Maybe he texted everyone, like Mycroft had? And why did it matter? I decided to text Mike.

_Hey, Mike, I got Rocky! What about you? And did Sherlock text you?_

_Congrats, J! I got Eddie. No, he didnt. Looks like u got a secret admirer ;)_

I smiled, but my insides were in knots. I was so conflicted. Being Rocky meant I had to be very intimate with a male co-star - which I didn't mind, seeing as I was gay - but from what it seemed, Sherlock was playing Frank-n-Furter. Again, I had to remind myself I hated him... but my heart began to argue with my head, and suddenly I wasn't so sure.


	2. Week One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry for the wait, everyone! Basically, I had my run with Chicago, and then my great grandmother passed away, and my laptop died, my relationship broke up, and I had to return to therapy, so in short, I am a terrible writer who is terrible at updating frequently. Forgive me?
> 
> I'd like to thank MysteriousMind for her endless cheerleading despite her hatred of crossovers, and her constant reminders that the world is waiting! I'd like to thank rosaisanerd for her quick beta before she had to catch her plane to Australia, and to Shannon for her lazereyes and her love. I would like to dedicate this chapter to Tayla, who's praise, love and cuddles keep me going! Thank you to you all, whose constant pushing for updates helps me bring things like this to life! I have so much love for you!
> 
> The songs that inspired this chapter are: Somebody to Love - Queen, Pompeii - Bastille, Little Talks - Of Monsters and Men, and Uprising - Muse.
> 
> Thank you for sticking around! Enjoy! x

_Sherlock Holmes - Dr. Frank N Furter_  
John Watson - Rocky  
Gregory Lestrade - Brad Majors  
Molly Hooper - Janet Weiss  
Michael Stamford - Eddie  
James Moriarty - Riff Raff  
Kitty Rielly - Magenta  
Sarah Sawyer - Columbia  
Stuart Anderson - Dr. Scott 

_Transvestites_  
Sally Donovan  
Sebastian Moran  
Dave Dimmock  
Richard Moriarty-Brook  
Soo Lin Yao  
Jeanette Harper  
Mary Morstan  
Billy O’Hare  
Sebastian Wilkes 

_Director - Mycroft Holmes_  
Choreographer - Irene Adler  
Music Director - Anthea Rémy 

I had read and reread the cast list over five times already. Shit. I was going to be snogging with Sherlock fucking Holmes in front of hundreds. This was crazy. Whose stupid idea was this?

Right.

"I'm sorry, mate," Mike said from over my shoulder. "But... Chemistry?" I made a noise of disgust. The cast, with the exception of his Royal Higharse Sherlock Holmes, was waiting outside the company. A piece of paper with all cast was taped to the doors. So crisp. My insides actually turned.

"G-God is d-d-dead and we ki-killed him," I replied, turning to look at Mike. "O-Of fucking c-c-course I'm w-working with th-th-that bastard!"

"We all are, John," Mike rubbed his forehead. "You just have kiss him, and he'll probably dry hump you."

"Fuck," I swore. "Bloody f-fucking Mycroft Ho-Holmes!" A few people looked over at my outburst, and then to the road. Apparently I summoned the devil, as Mycroft and Sherlock got out of a sleek black car that seemingly appeared out of thin air. Mycroft was holding a folder against his chest, and Sherlock looked like he was walking with scum. He seemingly felt my gaze, and met it. His face changed, only slightly, but he looked calmer, with his lips filling with colour, and the corners lifting a little bit. Even his eyes changed, the coolness of the grey melting into the warm blue-grey they had been in our audition last week. I looked at the ground after that. Mike choked on laughter, and I elbowed him. I only looked up when the door was opened, and the cast filed in. 

We were seated in the theatre again. The theatre wasn't technically a theatre; more like a dance studio with seats. Mike and I sat together, looking at everyone around us. From the three classes, there were at least 20 students here. Apparently, the others hadn’t been given a part at all, and would be used for later dates. As I started to relax, Sherlock sat down next to me. I lifted my eyes slightly in surprise. He looked as he did earlier, calmed yet still repulsed. My heart squeezed oddly again. When Sherlock smirked a little, I knew I'd been caught staring, so I quickly tore my gaze away to look down at Mycroft, who stood in the centre, looking at his cast with a slight smile. 

"Hello, again," he said, bringing everyone's attention to him. "Here we are at last. I do hope that everyone enjoys this production as much as Sherlock and I do," he fixed his icy gaze on both his brother and me simultaneously, and I felt myself flush in embarrassment. I shrunk down a little in my chair as Mycroft continued to speak. I felt fingers touch my wrist, and I looked back up at Sherlock, with his eerie alien features, alabaster skin like marble, almost a reflection on his personality, and his dark hair, curled around his face, framing him in a dark halo of curls. 

"Ignore Mycroft, it is in your best interests," Sherlock's voice was low, and an embarrassing thrill ran through me. _Oh God, help me..._ "He is an arrogant arse, and he is of no threat to you."

"Th-Thanks for th-the tip," I replied, straightening my back. Sherlock's fingers didn't move from my wrist, and the area where his fingertips pressed was alight with fire. 

"...Are there any questions?" Mycroft had finally looked away from us, and was now scanning the room. 

"What are rules of relationships within the cast?" A cool, taunting voice came from the back of the room. I repressed a shudder of distaste. I don't think I hated Moriarty more than anyone, Sherlock included. Even mentally mentioning him reminded him of his touch. _I hate him, I hate him, I hate him..._ No. You don’t.

"It is preferred that you do not have relationships with other cast members, romantic, sexual or otherwise, but as you are all adults, it is not my place to be telling you how to live your lives," Mycroft's eyes again flickered towards us, and this time I blushed deeply. He smirked before continuing, "Now. We have to begin." 

Anthea, the music director and bandleader, plus Mycroft's _personal_ assistant, walked in with a large pile of papers pressed to her chest. 

"These are your scripts," Despite her French name, she spoke in a perfect Londoner accent. "Everyone, no matter your part, will receive one, and you are expected to be off-book by next month, leads included. As Ms. Adler will join us next Tuesday, we will learn the first of the many chorus numbers in this musical without choreography. I would like the leads, Brad and Janet especially, to work together with lines and music. Now," she nodded at one of the girls in the front, and handed her the stack of scripts. The girl handed them out to everyone. She looked at Sherlock with a slightly scared expression, but he took his script, smiled and murmured "Thank you." She looked a bit shocked when she walked away. To be honest, _I_ was shocked.

The script was fairly thick when it was given out, around about 50 pages in length. I flipped through it, avoiding looking at anything involving Rocky and Frank. Mike made a noise of distaste at his death scene.

"Trust Mycroft to change the script. That man would change England if he was Prime Minister." There was a snort from next to me, and I looked from Mike to Sherlock. He had already placed it at his feet, and he was looking down at me smirking, his eyes shining. He gave me a piercing gaze that almost made me blush, before he looked over me to Mike.

"My brother originally would have acquired a position in the government, but instead decided to employ his will of domination into the world of acting," Sherlock said. Mike jumped, and then straightened his back like a general was addressing him. "He was repeatedly offered me any audition within stage or the BBC."

"He can do that?"

"My brother can be quite persuasive," 

"L-Like allowing y-y-you in?" I said before I thought, and then I regretted saying it. Mike choked next to me. Sherlock laughed, though it was dry.

"My brother _owns_ this company, John," Sherlock looked back at me. He was no longer smirking. "There was no one to persuade." He looked away from me, and he removed his hand from mine. I suddenly craved it back. I stared at him for a while before I decided to finally turn away. Mycroft and Anthea were talking quietly about something, and they were gesturing towards the rest of the students. Anthea laughed, and she walked out of the room. 

Mycroft turned back to us, "Now, read your scripts and Anthea will be back to teach you the chorus numbers, which are mainly The Time Warp and Science Fiction, Double Feature. All of the Transvestites will be given smaller parts if possible. Ms. Donovan, you have been given the role as the Usher," I turned to see Sally, and she was grinning. She got to open and close the show, so apparently she was good, but not good enough for the role she went for. "Mr. Moran, you have been given the role of Ralf Hapschatt, and Ms. Morstan, you are playing Betty Monroe," I was slightly glad I wouldn't be working with Moran in the opening. Even the five-minute role would boost his ego. Faintly, I heard the sounds of giggling, and it was coming from where Sarah and Mary were seated. "As you can see, many scenes have been extended, or added. One of those is the Hapschatt-Monroe wedding. Prepare, and learn your lines." Mycroft annunciated the last three words, and everyone started talking at once, seemingly excited now. Mycroft looked proud. I turned to Mike, and I grinned at his expression.

"Mycroft extended my _death scene_!" he hissed angrily, shaking the script in his hands. "The _dick_!"

"Finally someone who agrees with me," Sherlock commented from my left. I could feel him breathing against me. It was strangely intimate, and the guilt in my gut trickled away slowly. I barely roused myself into the mantra of _I hate Sherlock Holmes_.

"I went for Eddie because he had a killer song and he died offstage! He's not supposed to have dialogue... Or actually _kiss_ Columbia!"

"S-Sarah's not th-that ba-bad," I commented. I smiled at Mike, and I ignored the fact that I couldn't feel Sherlock breathing next to me. "I-I-I think sh-she fancies y-you, an-anyway."

"You're daft, mate. Her and Mary are both chasing _you_ ," he looked away from me, muttering what sounded like 'fuck that kissing Columbia how the fuck dare he'. I laughed softly, and looked back at the script in my hands. There was a tap on my shoulder, coming from Greg. I turned, and he grinned down at me. I hadn't heard any of his sarcastic comments, so he must have been down here to talk to Molly. 

"Have you seen any of your extended scenes yet?" 

I shook my head, "N-No. Trying t-to avoid th-that." 

"You are going to want to kill Mycroft," he laughed, his brown eyes swimming in mirth. My heart sank. It was worse than what I was expecting, wasn't it? 

"Th-Thanks for the t-t-tip," Greg laughed harder, and scuttled out from behind my chair. I sank down into the hard plastic, hoping Anthea would come back so we could start. Mycroft was marking a role of the cast, and wasn't paying attention to Sherlock and me, thankfully. Because he spoke again, and I felt my cheeks warm when he did. Shit. Oh shit.

"I think that we should work together, like the rest of the leads are," Sherlock wasn't looking at me, instead he was examining his nails. 

"W-We are w-w-working together, Sh-Sh-Sherlock," I winced a little. Sherlock's name was hard to get out sometimes. He noticed, and turned to face me. He smirked a little, but hopefully not at my stutter.

"Are Wednesdays and Fridays good for you? They are my only free days, and they are likely yours, considering you work the weekends, and usually Mondays." His eyes swept over me. I felt a little awkward. Of course he knew my work schedule.

"Th-That isn't a-a-a problem..." I replied, licking my lips. Sherlock's smirk grew, and it did look a little forced, like he was trying to keep from smiling or something.

"I will pick you up tomorrow, then," Sherlock's hand moved back to mine, and any guilt I felt from earlier drifted away completely. 

"H-H-How do y-you... Ne-Nevermind." And of course he knew where I lived. Christ. Sherlock's eyes flashed knowingly before he turned away. 

When Anthea walked in, I was happy I didn't have to sing, because I wouldn't have been able to.

*

"How was rehearsals today, son?" Dad asked over his steak. The Arsenal v Manchester United game we attended last Saturday was playing softly in the background. 

"F-Fine, yeah g-g-good," I replied, pushing around the peas on my plate, not looking at him. He laughed softly.

"John," his voice was warm, yet stern. Even though I was technically an adult, my father could still treat my like I was 16. I didn't mind, though. "Something's on your mind. You've barely touched anything on your plate. What's wrong?"

"I'm ju-just thinking, D-Dad," I looked up. He was smiling at me. "Th-The-The..." I made a noise of frustration. Dad was waiting patiently. "The-There's this bl-bloke... Fr-Fr-From m-my class..."

"Has he finally caught that wayward attention of yours?" Dad joked, cutting a piece of his steak and popping it into his mouth. 

I loved my dad. I came out to him a year after Harry told him she had moved in with a woman, and she was very happy. He accepted his children were gay, and had played a big part in our relationships, really. I met my first boyfriend, the son of one of dad's workmates, through Dad at a company Christmas party.

We don't talk about them anymore.

"No-No-Not l-like th-th-that," I winced at my words. I wasn't under /that/ much pressure. Dad noticed, and tried to joke it off.

"Christ, son, you must really like him if you can barely get the words out," Even with the joke, he looked a little worried.

"Th-That's just i-it, D-D-Dad. I-I ca-can-can... Ugh. C-Can't st-stand h-him!" I looked down at my meal, and closed my eyes tightly.

"John. I can see you're confused..."

"H-He's bl-bl-bloody Fr-Frank-n-Fur-Furter, and I-I h-have... H-Have to..." I gestured wildly with my hands, and Dad sighed a little. 

"You're an actor, John, and you'll have to work with people you don't like all the time. Now's best to get used to it," Dad pointed his fork at my plate. "Eat."

I did, pushing all thoughts, good and bad, of Sherlock out of my head, as Manchester scored the winning goal.

The night went on normally. Dad and I watched reruns of Doctor Who until 9, when Mum called. I refused to talk to her, as per usual. Dad put her on speaker, just in case. Dad told her of Rocky Horror, and she sounded excited about it. I just glared at the phone until Dad hung up. I went to bed early, and I didn't touch my script. I tried to not think about Sherlock at least until tomorrow, when I would be with him practically all day. God was sadistic. 

I woke at 8:30, and for a Friday morning, that was pretty good. I showered, had some eggs and sausages for breakfast, and cooked Dad his porridge. He came down, all showered and dressed for work while I was eating. He washed while I got ready for my day. This was our daily schedule, whenever I was awake before 9, that is. 

"Have fun today, John," he said when he gave me his parting clap on the shoulder. "And learn that script!" 

I laughed, though it was a little weak. "Y-Yeah, okay D-Dad." It wasn't ten minutes later when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

_Outside. Bring nothing but the script.  
SH_

I sighed through my nose, grabbing the script and standing. Here's to the longest day of my life.


	3. Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: IBegToDreamAndDiffer
> 
> Not as long as a wait this time, is there? I'm very happy I got this out quicker than last, and thank you all for your words of love and support. My life isn't improving much, but I am trying my hardest! You're not going to say goodbye to me yet!
> 
> Thank you so much to IBegToDreamAndDiffer for being my new beta for the time being... I love you so much my love. Thank you to Shannon, Bessii and MysteriousMind for the cheerleading, and casofsuburbia for the Skype sessions of ideas and love! I owe it all to you! Again, this chapter is dedicated to Tayla, who couldn't have been a better best friend! I love you so much! <3
> 
> Songs that inspired this chapter: Radioactive - Imagine Dragons, The Chain - Fleetwood Mac, Sigh No More album - Mumford & Sons

I locked the door behind me and pressed my head up against it, taking a few deep breaths. I turned, and was faced with a very modest looking car sitting in my driveway. I walked over, holding the script to my chest tightly. Sherlock leaned over and opened the door with an actual smile on his lips. I hadn't seen him looking this... Well, relaxed before. He wasn't in his usual expensive coat or suit, just in a plain white button down, the navy scarf he always adorned, and dark jeans. _Jeans_. He looked... Shit. He actually looked _nice_.

"Good morning, John," he said as I got in. I shut the door and turned. His smile, one that actually looked real, was infectious, and I smiled back.

"G-Good morning," I replied, putting my seatbelt on. Sherlock backed out, still smiling. We didn't actually talk, the soft sound of Pink Floyd playing softly in the background making up for the lack of conversation. I looked over at him, taking in his smile and his fingers tapping to the beat.

"W-Wouldn't have pi-picked you as a-a Floyd fan," I said. Sherlock laughed a little.

"Not many would," he murmured. "I do favour classical music, but there is something about this that pulled me in."

"I th-think it's nice," I smiled. Sherlock looked across at me and he laughed, which in turn made me laugh. I felt relaxed in Sherlock's presence. Was Sherlock acting, just to get me relaxed? Or was this who Sherlock really was?

"That is something I do not hear often," Sherlock said once we stopped laughing. His face had changed minutely. He no longer looked so relaxed, but he was trying. I didn't really have anything to say as a reply, and I looked away from Sherlock. There was silence then, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was one of those silences you shared with an old friend. _But Sherlock and I aren't friends. He doesn't_ have _friends_.

Sherlock turned up the music, which had changed from Pink Floyd to, obviously, Rocky Horror.

_On the day I went away,_

_Goodbye,_

_Was all I had to say,_

_Now I,_

_I want to come again,_

_And stay..._

I closed my eyes, letting the music calm me further. I pictured our closing night perfectly in my head, the spotlight on Sherlock as he sung, and in minutes he would be killed. I smiled a little, not at Sherlock having to be murdered, but at being able to watch Sherlock in his element. He is beautiful to watch here, where he is liked, loved, and is the Sherlock _I_ would date.

In reality, that wasn't Sherlock, but he was singing. I don't know how he did it, but his singing voice was smoother and higher in pitch than the baritone he spoke in. _Oh, shit. Fuck_.

I opened my eyes and looked out the window, expelling the fantasy and steeling up and getting those awkward emotions under control.

Next to me, Sherlock continued to sing.

*

The car stopped. We were somewhere, Kent or that general area. But that didn't matter. We were parked outside an honest-to-God manor. The stone was cream, and the building was large, two storeys high. My mouth hung open, and Sherlock laughed next to me.

"It isn't really that fascinating," Sherlock leaned back into his seat, stretching his back. He still seemed very comfortable with me, like a cat and its owner.

"A-Are you kidding?" I exclaimed. "I-It's bl-bloody beautiful!" I opened the door and got out, still gaping at the building in front of me. I heard the car lock, and Sherlock walked up to the door. I sighed and followed. Sherlock unlocked the door and pushed it open. The house was even more beautiful on the inside. Mahogany furnishings, blackwood floors, and oil canvases lining the walls.

“This manor has been in our family for generations,” Sherlock explained to me when I stopped to stare at one of the paintings. He looked exactly like Sherlock, only thicker brows and a soft dusting of facial hair. Also, he was wearing lord attire.

 “Ebenezer Holmes,” Sherlock nodded at the portrait.

 “H-He looks e-exactly like you,” I sighed softly, gaze not moving away from the painting. I had a double whammy of inky curls and kaleidoscope eyes, but I didn’t complain.

 “No descendants of his have looked like him until me,” Sherlock turned away now. “He was born in 1876, in London. He was a scandal at the time, as he didn't have any of his father's looks, so he was cast out and named a bastard. The only thing that proved him a pureblooded son were his eyes… All Holmes’ have heterochromia. It wasn’t obvious at birth, nor until he was walking. It is said that all of his looks came from his mother’s genetics, and over 200 hundred years later, I am granted with the same.”

“Yo-You’re lucky,” I said before I could stop myself. Sherlock looked over at me with a slight smirk, but it passed quickly.

 “Come along,” Sherlock walked up the hallway. There was the soft sound of a piano coming from a room to my right.

 “Before you ask, no, that is not Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “That would be my mother.” All Holmes’ seemed to be summoned by simply mentioning their name, because a tall regal woman swept out of the archway I was standing near. She didn’t look much like Sherlock, but it was obvious he had taken some of her features. Her height was one, and the dark curls. Her lips were slightly fuller than Sherlock’s, and her cheekbones weren’t as defined as her son’s. But she was a beautiful woman. Sherlock accepted the hug she gave him, looking even more like a satisfied cat.

“Sherlock.” God, even her voice was beautiful. It was throaty, and slightly accented. From this half I have seen, Sherlock and Mycroft by extension had brilliant genetics. All three of these Holmes’ seemed to be sculpted from marble, with genius to match. I watched Sherlock’s mother’s eyes sweep over me, an action I was all too used to now. Again, as I usually did, I wished I had been granted some brilliant genetics. Instead I had an alcoholic mum and a verbal stutter. “You didn’t say you had someone coming to us today!”

“Sorry, Mummy.” _Mummy_. I almost laughed, but Sherlock didn’t look at all embarrassed by what he called her. “This is John. He and I are working together in Rocky Horror.”

 “Ah, so this is your Rocky?” Sherlock’s mother turned and smiled at me. I felt myself flushing, and I twisted the script in my hand a little. “It is a shame my son didn’t tell you about me before. I am Geneviève, Sherlock and Mycroft’s mother.”

 “G-G-Good mor-morning,” I whispered, suddenly under a lot of pressure. Geneviève’s green eyes softened in sympathy for me.

 “Oh, mon Cherie,” she came over to me and tilted up my face. “Of course, of course…” Her fingers stroked down my face in motherly affection as she murmured to herself. Now I felt embarrassed as well as under pressure. She looked away from me, turning to Sherlock and whispering something. It sounded French. Right. French name, which means that accent would be French. Sherlock nodded and looked at me. I wanted to know what she said. “Oh, Sherlock, Mycroft is upstairs. Perhaps you should ask him what it is best for you both to revise out of rehearsals, yes?”

“Of course,” Sherlock looked only a little sour about seeing his brother, and Geneviève walked back through the archway. Sherlock and I walked on, both of us silent. The oil paintings had become photos by now, and the wall by the staircase was covered in photos of what seemed to be this Holmes generation. There were photos of a wedding, then of Mycroft and Sherlock as they grew up. The man that stood with Geneviève looked exactly as Mycroft did, auburn hair and the straight nose. I admired the photos as I walked, and stopped in front of the framed pictures of high school diplomas. I made a noise through my nose, which caught Sherlock’s attention.

 “Of c-course you graduated w-with h-honors a-and top m-m-marks,” I sighed, and shook my head. Sherlock stood just before me on the stair above. I looked up at him.

 “Problem?” he asked silkily. My heart gave a jump. I then mentally kicked myself.

 “N-Not at a-all, sm-smartarse,” I grinned in spite of the inner struggle, and continued walking up the stairs. I didn’t hear Sherlock follow for a few seconds, but he eventually rejoined me at the top of the stairs. He began unwinding his scarf as we walked, and threw it into an open door as we passed. I raised an eyebrow in surprise, but said nothing. That must have been Sherlock’s room. Which meant we must have been nearing Mycroft’s.

I wasn’t exactly wrong, but Mycroft’s room was at the other end of the house to Sherlock’s. Sherlock didn’t even bother knocking on the door.

 “Hello Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice was the trademarked coolness it was at lessons. I stood in the doorway as Sherlock walked in. I didn’t exactly feel comfortable walking into my tutor’s bedroom. “Come in, John, it is useless if you simply stand there.” Of course he knew. I walked in a little timidly, rolling the script in my hand. Mycroft’s room was quite large, much bigger than my own. Everything was neat but Mycroft’s desk, which was covered in papers, and two laptops that sat open.

“H-H-Hello, Mycroft…” I greeted him. Mycroft, though his voice was cool, was smiling from the loveseat he sat in by the window.

“I am very happy to see you here, John,” he told me, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair. Sherlock had now gone over to Mycroft’s messy desk, and started typing something into one of the computers. Mycroft pointedly ignored him. “I suppose this is not a _friendly_ outing, am I correct?”

I really didn’t like how he phrased that sentence. “N-No. I-I-I’m here to r-rehearse.”

 “Ah,” Mycroft sat up more. “I wouldn’t have thought you would be so quick to start, Sherlock.”

 “I thought it best that we should,” Sherlock replied, not turning away from the laptop. “Lestrade and Hooper have started as well, and seeing as they are leads, as John and I are, it would be best we started too.”

Mycroft hummed low in his throat, a glimmer of something in his eyes. “Of course.” He focused on me again. “ I would advice we don’t jump right into your kissing scenes, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Y-Yes,” I said, almost a little too quickly. If Sherlock or Mycroft noticed, they didn’t say.

 “Work on your first interactions, just after Rocky has been unveiled to Brad and Janet and company.” Mycroft suggested. Sherlock walked away from the laptop and took my hand. It burned.

 “We will come by if we get stuck, or if you do not hear that lunch is ready,” Sherlock pulled me from the room and closed the door behind us. I clenched the script in my hand, yet kept the hand in Sherlock’s relaxed. The walk back to his bedroom seemed longer than the walk from, but he let go of my hand as soon as we entered.

Sherlock’s room was messier than I would have thought. His coat hung from a corner of the door, and the scarf he threw in lay amongst other clothes. His desk housed a laptop and stacks of paper, much like his brother’s. His bed was large, yet it took up practically no space in the room. There was a large window opposite, letting in the morning light, and he had a goddamn window seat. On it sat a shoebox and a box that was labeled ‘make-up’. Sherlock closed the door and walked over to his desk, automatically retrieving his script. I looked down at my own, and winced a little at the small rips and wrinkles I had made.

 _Sword of Damocles._ I closed my eyes a little, “D-Do you w-w-want me to sing?”

Sherlock eyes brightened a little He went over to his laptop and opened it. After he typed in a few things, the music started. I started singing, almost instinctually. Sherlock watched me from where he stood by his desk, taking the parts of the Narrator in the song. He wasn’t even looking at his script; he was just concentrating on me.

When the music ended, and I had caught my breath back, Sherlock finally looked down at the script. Basic read through then. Good. Good.

 “Well really - that's no way to behave on your first day out.” he said, already completely in character. His voice was the pompous way of Tim Curry’s from the movie, over exaggerated British, but it sounded… Amazing coming from Sherlock’s mouth. I almost forgot to reply.

 “Well nobody's perfect - But I do think you made a pretty good job of the body work.” I started to do the stomach stroke the script said to. Sherlock smiled a little, eyes back to me.

 “You are the result of many hours of toil - and now my beautiful creature you're ready for the ultimate test.”

 “Oh dear.”

 “But first meet the family. Well Riff Raff what do you think?” Sherlock completely skipped over the coming replies, seeing as Moriarty (fortunately), Kitty Reilly (also fortunately) and Sarah (not so fortunately) weren’t here. “OK! I think we can do better than that. Well, Brad and Janet, what do you think?”

 I walked over to the laptop, near where Sherlock was sitting. He smiled at me, leaned over and typed in his password. YouTube came up, and I found the karaoke music for Sherlock’s song. “I didn't make him for you. He carries the Charles Atlas seal of approval. Maestro...”

Sherlock’s song started, and he began singing. And it was so much better than the soft singing from in the car earlier. His voice was strong, it never wavered once, and he kept the right tone the entire time. I felt my heart race in my chest, and my breathing sped up. Sherlock retained eye contact with me. _I Can Make You a Man_ had an entirely different meaning to me now, no matter what the lyrics meant. How long had I been kidding myself? Christ almighty…

 When Sherlock stopped singing, I was a little vacant. “John,” he said, breaking my reverie. I looked up at him, and then flushed. He was holding his script in his hand. Oh. Great.

 “I-It’s that scene, i-isn’t it?” I wanted to groan in happiness and frustration. My own head and heart were confusing me.

 “We will do a read through, but not the actions. I do believe Mycroft will want to coach us on how we are supposed to kiss.”

 “O-Of course he would,” I muttered, shaking my head. I looked at the script, and waited for Sherlock to start.

 “Oh, Rocky!” A shiver ran down my spine, and I almost lost my centre of Rocky’s mind.

 “Yes?”

 “Come here, my miracle man!” Sherlock said the line with the slightest curve to his lips, which made him look alluring and sexy. And not at all like Sherlock. For the second time, and probably not the last, Sherlock surprised me. “You’re so tense.” He even did the tut, and his fingers flexed, like he wanted to reach out… Oh hell.

 “Do you love me?” There was that eye contact again, and Sherlock held me with just his eyes.

 “Now Rocky. Why would you even think that I didn’t?” Sherlock was pouting slightly.

 “I am just an invention. A creation.”

 “Shh. No more talk.” Sherlock put the script down, and I looked away from him.

 “W-We barely h-have any re-real scenes together…” I commented to the silence. This wasn’t like the silence in the car; it was awkward and too long.

 “True, but we are more physical towards one another,” Sherlock replied. He was bent over near his laptop now, typing something again. There was still silence, but Sherlock started singing that song from the car, and I could feel his eyes on me again.

_Smile, and that would mean I may_

_I’ve seen blue skies_

_Through the tears in my eyes_

_And I realize I’m going home._

This song… Would be Sherlock’s last of the entire musical. He died after this song, and even him singing it now I replayed the scene in my head from the car. Would Mycroft make us cry? Would Sherlock cry, like Tim Curry did in the movie? I could see it. Sherlock was smiling, but black stained tears were rolling down his cheeks. He looked so convinced he was going home, that he was going to live. I watched, unable to move, unable to protect him, because that’s not how the story goes.

_Cards for sorrow, cards for pain_

_I’ve seen blue skies_

_Through the tears in my eyes_

_And I realize I’m going home…_

 “I h-have to watch y-you die…” I said once Sherlock stopped singing.

 “I’m not actually dying, John,” Sherlock retorted, and I choked back a laugh.

 “Th-That doesn’t m-mean i-i-it won’t hurt…” I sighed. “M-Mycroft is b-bound to m-make us cry.”

 “It isn’t like you would be upset if it was real,” Sherlock said, closing the laptop. I looked up sharply. That expression he constantly had at classes was in place, and my chest hurt.

 “Y-Yeah, wow, th-th-thanks,” I snapped, turning from him.

 “I _don’t have_ friends, and so therefore there is no one to weep if, heaven forbid, I die,” Sherlock said. He sounded far away. “And your body language shows that you would rather be somewhere else right now, and not in my company. You are not the only one, John Watson.”

 “I w-was f-fine until n-now! Y-Y-You clearly c-can’t see ev-everything, Sh-Sherlock!” I was angry now. I _was_ fine just before. His company was actually _nice_ when he was away from our peers and his brother. But here he was, being the Sherlock I _despised_. What had I done to bring this on? “Bl-Bloody fucking h-hell, Sh-Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face changed from stormy, to confused, to open and, ha, almost regretful, in the space of three seconds. There was a knock on the door before either of us could say anything. Sherlock started digging through the things on his window seat, and I stood there, angry and awkward.

 “Are you two all right?” It was Geneviève’s voice from the other side of the door.

Sherlock picked up a case, “We are fine, Mummy. Just a misunderstanding.”

 “Well, don’t misunderstand too much, John has only been here half an hour.” I felt a massive rush of love for Geneviève. Her voice was motherly; concerned. Sherlock looked at the door, and then at me. He physically deflated.

 “Of course,” he replied. He put the case on the bed. I already knew what it was. He pulled out an absolutely gorgeous violin. He handled the bow carefully, and pointed it at his bed and then me. “Sit.”

I sat where indicated. Sherlock’s eyes were soft, and he looked even more regretful than a minute ago. I was still angry, and I really wanted to punch him, but I didn’t simply because he looked so sad. Other than when he was acting, I had never seen him look like… Well, this.

The music started slow. It was vaguely recognizable, but I couldn’t put a name to it, not when I was so… Enraptured by Sherlock. He was poised perfectly, the violin underneath his chin, his eyes closed. He moved slowly, rocking a little as he played. He still looked sad.

When the music picked up, I knew what it was. _O’ Fortuna_. It was a beautiful piece within itself, but the way Sherlock played it beat Carl Orff by a landslide. Regrettably, though, it had to finish. Sherlock put the violin back in the case, but he kept the bow in his hand. All the anger I had felt had disappeared, and from the look in Sherlock’s eyes, I just _knew_.

 “A-Apology accepted,” I said.

Sherlock nodded at me. “Shall we continue?” He placed the bow back in the case, and without waiting for my answer, he closed it and grabbed his script.

 “Well really - that's no way to behave on your first day out.”

*

The sun had long since set when Sherlock suggested I should go home. We had been working on all of our joined scenes, and Sherlock had helped my singing voice stay strong without wavering. I could still feel his touches on my back as he straightened it, to get more air into my lungs and to expand my diaphragm.

We’d eaten sushi on his window seat for lunch, even though I had to make Sherlock eat.

 “I never eat when I’m working. It slows down brain function,” he’d said in distaste. I’d simply giggled and took a bite of one. He’d watched me do it, and then took his own roll.

He ate more sushi than I did.

I realized while he was explaining something about science that this is who Sherlock really was. And he felt comfortable enough in my presence to bring that out. Yeah, he was still the same annoying dick, but he was fire on the inside of ice. Maybe we could get this to work.

And I could still feel his touches, no matter what they were. The holding of my back, the brushes of fingertips, his hand holding my wrist. They burned so bright I’m sure Sherlock could see them.

No matter what I thought yesterday, or this morning, today has been the best day so far.

We drove back into London in silence. There was no music this time, but that was fine. I felt comfortable here now. My script sat in my lap, even though I hadn’t touched it since the third or fourth time Sherlock and I had run through our lines of our first scene. There weren’t many other lines I had to learn, other than my ones with Molly. I’d need to talk to her about that. Maybe tonight. Maybe.

When we pulled into my driveway, I didn’t move right away. Sherlock looked over at me, and I looked back. I smiled at him.

 “Th-Thank you f-for today,” I said. “I-I’ll see you T-Tuesday?”

 “I look forward to it.” Sherlock replied, returning my smile. I undid my seatbelt and got out of the car. Dad was home; I could see him moving around in the kitchen. I turned, and waved once to the car. Sherlock lifted his fingers in reply. I watched the car go until it disappeared. Then I knocked on the door.

 “Hang on, John!” Dad called. I heard a clatter, and a loud curse. I shook my head, and when Dad opened the door, his shirt was covered in liquid.

 “Y-You’re an idiot,” I commented, coming in.

 “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he grumbled, shutting the door behind me. “How was your day?”

 “L-Learnt ‘th-those lines’,” I said, putting my script down and going into the kitchen. It was a mess. “D-Dad, just call f-f-for a pizza, yeah?”

 “Yeah, yeah.” My dad grabbed the phone and ordered while I cleaned the mess. I was still thinking about Sherlock’s touches when the pizza came. We were eating on the couch, the news on in the background, when my dad finally commented. “You do look happy today, son.”

 “I… I-I am happy,” I confirmed, smiling. “N-New f-friends will d-do that to y-you.”


	4. Week 2, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy this is finally out! So many apologies for it taking so long! I have no excuse apart from procrastination, new betas and real life problems. So, here!
> 
> I promise the nitty-gritty acting is coming! By technicality, this story is split into two parts, the rehearsals and the performance, so it is all coming in good time!
> 
> I have so many people to thank for their help. I will not put them here, but they know who they are.
> 
> Happy reading! x

Tuesday finally came. I had never been more excited for class that I could remember. Sherlock and I had spent all weekend texting, mostly Sherlock going on about how insufferable Mycroft was. I had to always bite back the urge to reply with: _You are too. Sometimes._ But Sherlock and I were... Well, I had called him a friend. In front of my dad too. He'd had a shit-eating grin on for the rest of the night. I had hit him with a cushion, and then proceeded to bed. I fell asleep grinning. But did it make us friends? Not a week ago I was saying I hated him. Was it true then? Probably not.

And I was seriously looking forward to seeing Sherlock, and I knew he was too. He’d even said so. His last text last night was; _I have not been this excited to go to rehearsals in a long time, and I do believe it is because I am excited to see you. I will see you tomorrow. – S_

That had made my heart skip a beat.

But I was definitely, absolutely, 100% not crushing on Sherlock Holmes. No way in bloody hell.

“Are you crushing on fucking Sherlock Holmes?” Mike had exclaimed in the car when he picked me up Tuesday night. I had stared at him, unable to answer. “Oh my God! You are!”

“N-No I’m n-not!” I replied, crossing my arms. Because I wasn’t. Hell no.

Mike gaped at me. “Holy fuck, John! When were you going to tell me?”

“A-Are you not l-listening to me?” I questioned, a little angry. “I. A-Am. Not. Cr-Crushing. On. Sh-Sherlock. F-Fucking. Holmes.”

Mike looked unconvinced. “Just... if you do mate, tell me. ‘Cause I’ll support it. I will.”

“W-Why? You ha-hate the bloke.”

“Because I can already tell you’re changing him, alright? He could become bearable.” I looked over at him, and then we both began to laugh. It wasn’t because it was funny; it’s just because it was _Sherlock_. But I stopped laughing when I remembered what he was like on Friday. Those bloody jeans...

We arrived a little late to class, so everyone was already inside. Mike swore, and we both hurried in. Anthea stopped talking when we both hustled in, smiling like we were children who had just been caught in their father's stash alcohol. “Stamford, Watson. You are late. Please take your seats.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Stamford said, mockingly saluting her before going to sit down beside Sherlock. My eyes followed him, and my eyes fell on Sherlock. He, very slightly, raised his eyebrows and inclined his head to the seat next to him. I cleared my throat and went up there, feeling Anthea’s eyes on my back the entire way. I could hear the whispers of the rest of the cast as I walked and as I sat. Mike looked over at me, smug. I wanted to punch him.

“Now, as I was saying,” Anthea continued, “Rehearsals will not be as strenuous as Chicago’s were last year. That being said. I do not want you to think you can slack off because this musical is short, or because you do not like it. Am I understood?”

As people made noises of agreement, Sherlock looked down at me. “Why so late, John?” He turned to Stamford, who was determinedly focusing on Anthea. “Ah. Honestly, Mike, having a wank before rehearsals lowers your energy rate. You should be happy you don’t have a bigger part.”

Mike gaped at him now, eyes blazing, “Now hold on a second—”

“M-Mike!” I hissed, glaring at the both of them. “Sh-Sh-Sh-Sherlock, k-keep your m-mouth sh-shut!” I looked into his eyes when I said that. His face showed no anger, in fact he was smirking.  He opened his mouth to comment, but at that moment Irene Adler strolled into the room. All of the talking stopped instantly and we all turned to face her.

Irene Adler was one of the most renowned British sopranos and composers. She, like Sherlock, played the violin, along with piano, harp, and guitar. She was also many young mens' ideal sex goddess. It was rumoured she was an amateur dominatrix in her teenage years. Mike also had the biggest crush on her. Her dark hair was hanging loose in her face today, slightly damp and wavy, her eyes lined in kohl, her lips crimson. She had been working with Mycroft for over five years, so we weren’t surprised to learn that she would be our music director.

“Stamford was tossing off thinking about her before he picked you up,” Sherlock whispered in my ear, his warm breath ghosting over my cheek. I choked, and turned to glare at him. As I did that, though, our faces became quite close. I was literally an inch from Sherlock’s lips. I could push forward just a bit, and... And...

“Sherlock, John, if you could spend one moment out of character, that would make our jobs a lot easier,” Irene said, a smirk evident in her voice. I jumped away, avoiding looking at Sherlock, who was chuckling softly.

Moriarty was whispering something quite loudly at the back of the room, but I heard it like he was saying it right next to me, “I was quite hoping for a porn show, perhaps I will just have to wait until Watson can’t stand it anymore. We’ve got to have an exhibitionist somewhere.”

Anger surged through me, but I ignored him. I was doing okay until Anderson commented, “Freak fucking freak. They make a perfect pair, wouldn’t you say?”

I stood up before the thought of punching Anderson even properly formed in my head. Whoever was talking stopped talking, but I paid no heed. I stalked up to Anderson, and the laughter went quiet. I pulled him up, and I felt my hand ball up to make the punch...

...But it never connected. Someone pulled me back from Anderson, and there were people around me, talking, staring. I broke from the person holding me, and I stalked out of the room, and out onto the street. I knew I was being followed, and I clenched and unclenched my hands with each breath. I was so angry, my field of vision turned red. I turned to punch whoever followed me, but their fingers slid around my wrists, securing me.

“John, you need to breathe and _calm down_ ,” The voice registered as Sherlock, as did the fingers around me. I squirmed in his grip, trying to get out. I needed to go back in there and _murder_ Anderson and Moriarty. “No, there will be no need for murder, John. Calm. Down.”

I realised I said that out loud, and oddly all of the fury melted out of me. Sherlock’s fingers were rubbing soft circles on my wrists. “Sh-Sh-Sher... Sh-She—” I winced when I couldn’t even get out his name. There was so much emotion on Sherlock’s face that I collapsed into him. He exhaled, in either surprise or relief, I couldn’t tell. His hands held me tighter, supporting me. I felt like crying, stupidly, but my eyes were giving nothing, so I was left making pathetic sounds into Sherlock’s chest.

“Breathe, John,” Sherlock was saying to me. He sounded like he genuinely cared, like he knew what this felt like. “I know you thought you had escaped it, I know...” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the noises subdued to noises through my nose, mostly just deep breathing and the occasional dry sob.

I heard the door open, and footsteps approach us. “Sherlock, what happened?” It was Mycroft. _Of course_ it was Mycroft. I couldn’t lift my eyes to look at him, so instead I focused on the pavement, aware of the burn that began in my eyes.

“Anderson and Moriarty provoked John,” Sherlock replied coolly. “He needed air and I came to make sure he was alright.”

“And do you honestly _care_?” I heard Mycroft hiss. I flinched, and stepped back a little from the two. This was far too personal now; I was the subject of a Holmes dispute. “He is simply a co-star, Sherlock. You have never spoken before this, at least not civilly!”

“I do care,” Sherlock snapped. “because he was _defending_ me. And he is a _friend._ ”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sounded exasperated. “John is—”

“Stop talking about him like he isn’t here!” Sherlock hissed. “He is one of your most talented students, you put him in this role for a damn reason! Hell, for all I know you are trying to set us up!”

I looked up sharply. The brothers were face to face; Sherlock’s eyes glinting in anger, and Mycroft’s lips turned down in distaste. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you Sherlock?” was Mycroft’s cold reply. He fixed his gaze on me. “John, you are not needed for these scenes, so take your time to breathe. Sherlock, I expect you back soon.” He turned on his heel and went back inside. Sherlock was instantly in front of me the second the door closed.

“Y-Y-You...” I tried to say, but Sherlock silenced me with a just a _look_.

“Ignore Mycroft, he is a blithering idiot,” Sherlock said snappishly, starting to pace in front of me. “Everything he will say about me, about _this_ ,” he gestured between us both blindly, “is wrong. He is _wrong_!”

I stayed silent, just watching him. I felt like, even though I knew it was impossible, Sherlock had taken away my anger and transferred it to himself.

“Sh-Sher—” Sherlock stopped moving, and I stopped talking. He turned to stare at me, his eyes hard and angry. I approached him, and took his hands. “S-S-Stop.”

It wasn’t like before, but I felt Sherlock relax. This was Friday’s Sherlock all over again, only wearing the mask that he did in public. It was quieter now, the gentle rumble of London behind us. We looked at each other, saying nothing.

I felt my heart jump into overdrive as Sherlock’s face softened further. He pulled me closer, using the hand-holding to his advantage. I stumbled forward, and we were back in the position that started all of this. Sherlock’s lips were _right there_... I could stand on my toes, and I could just...

He moved his head, and I thought he was going to kiss me. I was ready for it, but it never came. Sherlock gazed his lips instead along my hairline and whispered, “Remember to breathe.” And then he was gone. I opened my eyes, the not-so kiss burning my forehead. _Holy shit_.

My heart was thumping in my chest, and my breathing was slightly faster, but I was still most definitely _not_ crushing on Sherlock Holmes.

*

When I went back inside, everyone was getting into position for what looked like the Hapshatt-Monroe wedding scene. I sighed. Mycroft was right; I wasn’t needed. But neither were Mike or Sherlock. But they sat apart from each other, Mike reading his script and Sherlock all marble and ice, concentrating on something on his phone. He didn’t even look in my direction, so I went to Mike.

The cast began whispering when they saw me, but I ignored them. Sherlock’s eyes flickered up from his phone, and they fixed on me. I bit my lip, looking back. He gave me a stiff, cool nod before returning to the phone. Disappointment rushed through me, and I sighed inwardly. Had I really expected him to want me over there after what happened outside? I could be a huge dolt sometimes.

Mike looked up at me, eyes wide and worried. He put his script down, and as the cast began reciting, he began making sure I was okay. I hardly heard the words, as I focused on Sherlock. I didn’t have a bloody crush on him, so why did I want him to kiss me so bad? Why did I feel like shit when he left me on the pavement alone earlier? Did he even mean everything he told Mycroft?

“...I almost punched the arse myself, but Irene put a stop to it... John? John, are you even listening to me?” I faintly heard Mike say, but it didn’t come into focus until he pushed my shoulder. “Dammit John, you look so pathetically lovesick not even fucking Anderson could miss it.” My eyes flickered over to him, expecting him to look angry, or even sardonic, but all I saw was sympathy. Bloody hell.

“S-S-Sorry. Just... Th-Thinking,” Which was true. Mike shook his head and patted my shoulder, and I turned back to the scene unfolding, Mycroft stopping and starting it, as some of the cast weren’t looking right, saying lines correctly or even saying anything. Donovan began complaining loudly about how they don’t have time to learn lines, and Mycroft’s snappy reply was that they just needed to look _engaged a_ nd that she had no lines here so why was she complaining? I laughed, only a little, and dryly at her expression, whilst Mike pretty much shook with silent laughter. Sherlock looked uninterested, still reading whatever was on his phone. I had the sudden urge to walk over there, take the phone from his hands and kiss him so he knew I was there, but I swallowed the urge and locked it away so I would never feel it again.

“John. Sherlock.” Mycroft’s curt voice broke the inner struggle I was having. “And Michael.” He added as if an afterthought. “We are going to do Eddie’s scene. Hopefully you can show Miss Donovan, Mr. Moran and Mr. Anderson what it means to be _talented_ actors.” The look on his face showed he certainly wasn’t happy with what happened before. Moriarty’s face twisted, in what, I don’t know, as he and his posse went to sit down. Brook was standing on the floor, looking a bit lost. The poor lamb.

“Richard,” Moriarty snapped, bringing his brother to attention. He scuttled off to sit, even though it was as far away from that group as possible. Sarah and Mary were whispering off to the side, looking at me as I stood. I got into character as easily as one would get dressed in the morning. Sherlock apparently had done the same, as the air around him was... different somehow. I couldn’t explain it, but when our gazes locked, I felt my breath sweep away. _I’m not crushing on him, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!_

Irene pressed play on the speakers, and the chords to Eddie’s one and only song begin to play. Mike clears his throat and goes to make his entrance, whilst I stood near Sherlock, who was looking angry and surprised.

As Mike entered, and was singing, Sherlock stole a glance at me. I felt my cheeks warm, but I didn’t look away. He stared at me, eyes scanning my face, and then turned away, apparently satisfied. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, and I reminded myself to look away and to get back into character.

Mike’s song didn’t take that long to finish without the choreography, and Sarah tore past me with a shriek of “Eddie!”

“Hey chicky.” Mike replied, and Sarah threw her arms around him. I stared at them, hopefully looking confused.

“I missed you! Did you miss me? Please say yes, Eddie.” Sherlock made a noise next to me, looking at the couple in contempt. I touched my forehead, where Eddie’s cut would be on stage.

 

Mike and Sarah looked at each other, and Mike’s cupped her chin with his fingers and kissed her. He just leaned in and kissed her, even after all of his complaints about it. Sarah was obviously reciprocating, and she, somehow, was still smiling. Was it really that easy? To just lean in and kiss your co-star like that? But then again, Mike didn’t have to kiss the insufferable, annoying dick that was Sherlock Holmes.

“I missed you baby. Just because I have half a brain don't mean I have half a heart.” Mike replied after the kiss broke, and Sarah swooned in his arms.

“That is how you kiss onstage!” Mycroft announced to the rest of the cast. Sarah blushed and giggled, and Mike mocked bowed, before looking at me. Moran looked absolutely livid, and Moriarty was whispering in his ear, before he looked over at Sherlock and I, something dark in his eyes. Sherlock made a noise low in his throat, and I knew he’d noticed. “Mr. Moran, Miss Morstan, if you please, try the scene again, or maybe you should both take lessons from Mr Stamford and Miss Sawyer!”

There was a pressure at the small of my back, and it wasn’t until I was walking forward that it registered as Sherlock’s hand. Mike joined us, looking giddy. We sat; looking at everyone set himself or herself up again.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” Mike said, a grin crossing his lips. Sherlock looked down at him, his hand resting on my thigh. I was trying my hardest to ignore the warmth, and what it was doing to my... Oh God.

“Miss Sawyer would say the same.” Sherlock replied, a sly smile on his lips.

“What would you say if I asked her out, then?”

“I would say ‘good’,” Sherlock slid his hand down my thigh and then his hand left me. I felt tingly, and a little dizzy. “She would say yes, and as long as you didn’t take her to a Manchester football game, or a pub playing said game, you two would last a while.”

Mike looked a little chuffed now, and he winked at me before fixing his eyes back on the wedding scene.

I, honestly, now felt a bit sick. Moriarty was glaring at me every moment he got, although his lips were always twisted in that reptilian grin. Moran and Mary had finally got their wedding kiss right, and Mycroft sighed in relief. Irene came over to him and whispered something in his ear, and then they both beckoned over Anthea.

 The cast automatically dispersed into chattering groups as the three directors conversed. Moriarty was still looking at me, despite Moran, Kitty Reilly, and by default, Richard trying to get his attention. I did stare back in defiance, but my stomach roiled and I thought I _would_ be sick.

I didn’t get up for the rest of rehearsals, the scenes blurring together and not really fixing in my head. The nausea never left me, and neither did the panic that had settled deep in my chest. I knew Sherlock was looking at me even as he did his scenes, if he had any, I couldn’t honestly tell, but I knew his presence. It was like a slow burn in my nerves, in my heart. Between that and the rising panic, I felt sick, faint, and shaky. It didn’t take long before I heard somebody’s voice; deep, oozing their way into my veins, like a slow-killing poison, ensuring a prolonged death full of pain. It was a minute before it registered as Moriarty’s.

“You know, you’re going to make him a whole lot easier to get to,” he was whispering. I could feel his breath against my ear. It was warm, ghosting gently over it as if he and I were intimate, but instead I felt cold. “Thank you for coming along when you did, Johnny Boy. I’m sure he’s willing to burn. Are you?”

“I-I-I...” I tried to answer, but panic enveloped me and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“He’ll burn with you, John. I’ll let him, promise. Pinkie promise,” I felt him touch my hand, and then his little finger wrapped around mine, and squeezed. “We will see how talented he really is.” I felt his lips press behind my ear, and then he was gone. I could have cried.

“John? John!” Someone was speaking to me, but I couldn’t make out who exactly it was. I felt half blind, completely deaf and incredibly stupid. Panic was churning in my stomach and in my chest. It had been years since I had an anxiety attack, and the fear of it happening made it worse. “No. No, you’re going to breathe for me, right now.” Oh, it was Mike.

In, out, in, out, in, out. I took in some deeps breaths and closed my eyes, calming my frantic nerves slowly. Mike was rubbing soothing movements on my shoulders, and I felt myself relaxing. It probably took about half an hour before I did, though.

“Stamford, you’re needed!” Irene snapped from across the theatre, and Mike gave me a wistful look. I just waved him away, instantly searching for Sherlock. He met my eyes instantly, and I could see worry there. It was gone in an instant, but I saw it. My chest lurched again, but this time in a good way. I watched Irene teach some of the cast how to sing, and then it was over.

I stood, watching as Sherlock disappeared from view instantly. I collected my things, and made my way to the door he left through, only to be cornered by Anderson.

“W-W-What do y-you w-w-want?” I asked, crossing my arms as he stood in front of me.

“You should stay away from Holmes, you know,” he said. “He’s just going to destroy you.”

“We-We’re cast mates, n-nothing more.”

“Please,” Anderson scoffed, his lips twisting. “You look at him like some lost puppy. Only other person I saw you look at like that was Bill Murray.”

My heart stuttered to a stop in my chest. Don’t think of Bill, don’t think of Bill, don’t... “Y-Yeah, w-we-well... H-H-Holmes isn’t h-him.”

“He’s using you,” that venomous voice joined in. Moriarty walked in, all confidence and smirks. “I can see right through him, you know. We’re exactly the same, he and I. Although he is more... flawed.”

“Wh-What d-d-do you w-want?” I repeated my earlier question. I was starting to fret again. No one else was around. I couldn’t defend Sherlock alone.

“I want his recognition. He only is top here because his brother owns the company and half the British Broadcasting Channel,” his voice was sly, his features oily. “I want _everything_ that Sherlock Holmes is.”

Anderson sneered, “And to do that he... Well, we need you.”

“I-I-I har-hardly know h-him!” I said honestly. “Wh-why me?”

“Because he _likes_ you. People do get quite attached to their pets,” Moriarty’s confident smirk gave me the chills. And then he was up in my face, as he pushed me hard against the wall. “I can use you to destroy him inch by inch. And then once he is out of the way, he and I will discard you like yesterday’s rubbish because you are _nothing_ John Watson. Nothing.” He pushed back off the wall.

I felt the panic rise and I couldn’t stop it, couldn't even control it enough to not have it happen in front of Moriarty. Yet he just waggled his fingers at me. “Ciao,” he said merrily, before grabbing Anderson’s arm and pulling him out. Suddenly, my legs would not hold me and I slid down the wall, grasping at the floor. My head spun, my fingers shook and I was almost sick. Buzzing filled my ears, as I began to hyperventilate. I pressed my forehead into my knees and shook with the panic.

Then there were hands under my armpits and I was being heaved to my feet. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself, and I felt myself moving, the distant rumble of an engine in my ears. Then there was muffled rapid French, and then a mattress. I heaved into my shaking hands, but nothing came up. There was a hand at my back, and then a mug of tea. Tea made just the way I needed it.

It took a while, but I calmed down. My surroundings became clearer. Sherlock’s bedroom. _Sherlock’s bedroom._ Bugger. Fuck. Shit, shit shit.

“John?” There was a weight next to me, and the mug was removed from my hands. “Êtes-vous bien, mon cher?” That wasn’t Sherlock’s voice.

“W-What?”

“Are you well?” Geneviève translated, stroking my hair. “My Sherlock brought you here saying he did not want you alone for one more second. He went to make you another mug of tea.”

Ah. “S-S-Sorry to in-intrude...”

“Not at all, Jean!” Sherlock’s mother protested. “You are Sherlock’s friend, you are welcome here whenever you please.” She kissed my forehead once more, as Sherlock walked back into the room. He took one look at me, his expression neutral.

“Comment sévère était son attaque paniquante, mére?” He asked Geneviève, handing me my new mug. His mother replied with something sharp and fast, which Sherlock nodded in answer to.

“Jean, you are welcome to stay here as long as you want. I will talk to your father and warn him,” She said, standing. “Drink your tea, mon cher, your panic is gone now.” She walked from the room and closed the door with a soft click.

“Sh-Sh-Sherl-lock.” I looked up from my mug, to face him. He wasn’t looking at me.

“Panic attacks, why didn’t I see it before?” he muttered in his perfect English. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t _miss_ anything. How did I miss that?”

“Sh-Sherlock!” I snapped, putting my mug down. I stood, surprised at the strength in my legs. This was a mediocre attack then. Thank God. “C-C-Calm down!” I took his face into my hands, making him face me. “Th-They ha-haven’t happ-ppened s-since high sc-school, that’s wh-why!”

“Then why are they coming back again three years after you obviously got better?”

“M-Mo-Moriarty.” I replied, dropping my hands. Sherlock immediately grabbed them.

“What did he say to you?” His voice was oddly tight.

“I-I-I... Um...” I tried to remember. “S-Something about y-you burning? I-I knew h-he was th-th-threatening you...”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened around mine. “Of course...” he breathed, before he looked back at me. “Listen to me, John. I am going to help you through this, through all of the panic that still lies within you, obviously now a stigma that was enforced whenever your mother yelled about your stutter. I will help you through Rocky Horror, and I will help you with anything you need, do you understand?”

I nodded, unable to speak. Sherlock rubbed my hands and then his hands were moving up my arms, and then across my shoulders. His eyes were the brightest blue I had seen them, and I couldn’t look away. My body burned again, but this time because of positive stimulation. Sherlock’s hands touched my jaw, and then he was kissing me.

My eyes closed by their own accord, even though I was very surprised. His lips were soft against mine, his hands tender, and his kisses gentle and slow. My heart was jumping in my chest, and I gave up denying I felt _something_ for Sherlock. I couldn’t deny it. I was kissing him back.

And that was when he stopped. He pulled back, dropping his hands. His eyes had darkened slightly, and he dropped his gaze. “Finish your tea. I need to think.”

“Sh-Sh—”

“That kiss never happened,” Sherlock snapped, waving a hand. “Best forget it.”


End file.
